


To Anywhere I Please

by Aivix



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6938224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aivix/pseuds/Aivix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had kept his secret for decades, but Rodney just <i>had</i> to shove him into the chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the Outpost

_He used to dream about it all the time—about flying through the clouds, fingers stretched toward the sun and the wind in his hair—when he was young._

_There was never anyone there to stop him as he lifted off the ground, no one telling him to go to his room, no punishments._

_Just himself and the sky._

(For the record, John Sheppard never learned to fly: he had something grander and he became an academic instead—the kind of mathematical mind that had titles and prestige and an office at Harvard, which generally went unused once John met Rodney.

Sometimes, though, he still dreamed of what it would have been like.)

“I don't know why you're being such a baby about this.”

John narrowed his eyes at his colleague.

“All you have to do is sit in the chair so we can rule you out of the ATA gene pool officially.”

“No.”

There was literally nothing on Earth that could get John to sit in the Chair. Nope, nothing, not happening. He'd managed this far in life without anyone finding out and there was no way he was going to offer himself up to the US Military for testing when they demanded a medical exam.

Also, Atlantis was pretty damn far away.

“I didn't want to have to resort to this, but...” Rodney squared his shoulders. “I've seen the way you look at my mouth and there's been some sexual tension between the two of us that even I've noticed. So. You sit in the chair and I will give you the best blowjob of your life.”

“Wow.”

“Wow?”

“Wow, you're prostituting yourself. That's a new low.”

Rodney growled, crossed his arms, stuck his chin in the air, and snapped, “At least I didn't require someone offering sexual favors to get me to sit there for five seconds.”

“Hmm, and that's why you're a better man than me, Rodney. A paragon of virtue if you will.”

“I hate you right now.”

“I can tell.”

* * *

Rodney's demands to sit in the chair only got worse as time went on.

* * *

As the date of the Expedition's launch neared, the helicopter guy, Lorne, was found to have a mild expression of the ATA gene and John had half rejoiced because hey, someone else for Rodney to torment.

Except Rodney could apparently split his attention on two people when it came to the damned gene.

“The _ferry guy_ has sat in the Chair and you haven't.”

“Looks like.”

Rodney clamped down on his wrist, gripping tightly. “We have ten days! Let's go.”

John tried to shake him off, but Rodney refused to let up, even after John told him, “I'm going to have to pass,” and resumed re-reading the proof he'd been working on.

“Let's. Go.” Rodney pulled on John's arm.

The reply was a firm, “No.”

“What is it with you?! This is the greatest find in the history of the world! This is Atlantis and we have the chance to be the first people in thousands of years to see her, and you can't get final approval to go if there's no confirmation of you either having or not having the gene.”

“Who said I was going to go?”

Rodney dropped John's wrist and set his hands on his hips. “You can't seriously be considering not going,” he said, and when John shrugged back at him, he announced, “I'm getting Elizabeth,” and headed out of John's office.

Groaning, John got up and whined, “Wait, Rodney, come on,” as he gave chase, only to find that he'd been led straight to the Chair and not to the Expedition head.

“Sit!”

“No!”

Rodney shoved him hard, sending John flailing while stumbling backward; a wire running from the chair to a computer was the final straw for John's fight against gravity and he fell back with a glare at his best friend.

And as the Chair hummed and glowed brightly, John felt the blush creep up his neck.

He was so fucked.

* * *

“John.”

“No.”

Elizabeth sighed: he wasn't even looking up from his work, resolutely staring down at the latest numbers to be re-checked. It was frustrating, how stubborn he was being, but she knew she had to keep pushing—they needed John and with only nine days left before departure, she had to convince him ASAP.

“Please, just listen to me for a few minutes.”

“Are you going to try to convince me to go to Atlantis?”

“Yes.”

He changed something on the paper and repeated, “No,” then added, “I have a number of reasons to not go that will not be surmounted by whatever reasons you and Rodney have come up with for me _to_ go.”

“Okay, like what?”

“Excuse me?”

“What's a reason you have not to go?”

The biggest one flashed to mind and he forced his lips into a tight line in an effort to not blurt it out. Instead he told her, “I'm still close with my family, Elizabeth. I think they'd notice if I said I was going on a trip and never came home.”

She lifted one eyebrow, admitting, “We're expecting to re-establish contact within a year. The Asgard have been working with us to build a ship capable of making the trip between Pegasus and Earth.”

“And if something went wrong in the interim? What then? Sumner takes control?”

“The IOA guidelines put him in charge if there's an issue where military action is needed, but unless we're directly under attack, I'm in charge.”

“I don't trust him.”

“You don't like him, John.”

“Nope, don't like him either.”

She resisted rolling her eyes at him, waiting for the next of John's reasons, but none appeared forthcoming. She prodded, “What else?”

John felt the knot in his chest, the one that had been there since Rodney had pushed him into the Chair, tighten, and he shook his head. “Later. I have work to do.”

Elizabeth reached across the desk to touch his shoulder, feeling something beneath the thick cloth of his fleece. He quickly shook her hand off, and Elizabeth sighed again: John'd always been so... untouchable, unwilling to let anyone breach his personal space, she half-wondered if he'd ever been hugged, kissed, had a lover.

“John, whatever it is, let me have the chance to make you comfortable coming with us.”

He snorted sadly, “You can't.”

* * *

With eight days left before departure, Rodney's attempts to convince John to go to Atlantis ratcheted up to the same level of intensity as when he'd been trying to get John to sit in the Chair; Elizabeth was still working to convince him as well, but she kept to more professional boundaries.

Or so he'd thought.

“She send you down here?”

Carson gave him a soft look, then settled into a chair on the other side of the desk. “She wants to express to you how desperate we are for proper gene carriers,” he cocked his head to the side, “which is something you already know so I'll not go on and on about the topic, aye?”

“What are you going to go on and on about?”

“Nothing. I thought I might sit here for a few minutes and then you can shout me out of here.”

John gave him half a smirk, and admitted, “I don't think I can ever shout at you.”

“Ah, well, there is that.” Carson looked down at his shoes, then back at his friend. “I would like you to come to my quarters tonight, John.”

“I thought we agreed not to do... that... again.”

It was Carson's turn to smile. “Ah, no, not that,” he agreed, “I'd like to take some blood. I suspect that a certain feature of yours is related to the ATA gene and I wanted to examine it myself.”

“Carson...”

“I won't let anyone else work on it or even look at it. You have my word.”

“No one else with the gene has,” he swallowed, “you know.”

“It could have to do with how strongly the gene expresses itself. We know that the ATA gene interacts with different genomes depending on if a person is Dominant-Dominant versus Dominant-recessive.”

He remained unsure and Carson could see it.

“If you don't feel comfortable, I won't push, John, but I want you to think about it.”

(John let Carson take the blood samples.

He would come to be glad he did, but when Carson turned up in his quarters the next night, there was a few hours of terror first.

“It's... Christ, John...” Carson gripped the paper in one hand, holding it out for John to read.

One line jumped out at him.

“Fuck. I need to call my dad.”)

* * *

He wasn't sleeping well: five days left to departure and that found John wandering through the labs and research section of the outpost.

Few people were awake, which meant he could meander peacefully from room to room; he looked at all the pretty plants that the botanists were collecting seeds from and the saplings they were amid transplanting, and at the papers coating the walls of Daniel's office, words scrawled in pen alongside the rubbings.

Rodney's lab was a mess—as per usual—of Earth technology and Ancient, some devices lighting up when John got near. His back twitched when a particular one began to make a low-pitched whine and he left without making sure the device had turned off.

The historians had a legion of artwork in their space, their current task to analyze it all for clues about the Ancients and Atlantis.

Here he lingered, taking in all the classical paintings and sculptures. He didn't even budge when Daniel entered the room to drop off a text, asking, “Can't sleep either?” while staring at an oil work of angels.

“I work better at night.” Daniel came to stand beside him. “What's your excuse?”

“I didn't plan to go...”

“But you're thinking about it.”

“Yeah.”

Daniel nodded in understanding, then gestured at the picture. “Well, if you go, you might get to meet some of them.”

“Who? Angels?”

“Ancients,” he answered, “They were incorrectly revered as angels on Earth because they'd evolved in Pegasus to have wings.”

“You're joking.”

“I wish I was. It would make talking to Jack about it all far less painful.”

* * *

His father called back with four days left to spare.

(“I don't understand why you want to know all this now,” Patrick grumbled, “You know the story.”

“Dad, just humor me.”

“All right.”

“Mom... was she like me?”

“You mean did she have wings? I can't say for sure that she did. I mean yeah, I saw them, but it was a costume party so I thought they were just part of her getup. They might have been.”)

John almost wished he hadn't.

Called, that was.

(“Do you remember exactly what she said when she came home with me?”

“John...”

“It's important, Dad.”

“She said that you were her hope and the hope of many others.” Patrick sighed, “She was high on something. Hell, you screamed for days after she left, so I imagine whatever she was on, you'd been exposed.”)

He'd been happy in his ignorance.

(“Last question, Dad, and then I'll never bring this up again.”

Patrick didn't wait for John to speak again—he knew what his son was going to ask. “Anastius. That was the name she called you.”)

He really had.

(“Dad, I'm... I have the opportunity to go on an expedition with my team. It's far away, no contact, and I don't know exactly when I'll be home. But...” he swallowed, “I want to go. I need to go.”

Patrick was quiet, then, “I won't ask you to stay, John. You're a grown man,” and, “Be safe. Whatever it is, just be safe.”

“I will.”)


	2. Before the Chair

“If I didn't know better, I'd think ya' were avoiding me.”

John stopped short.

Crap.

“Avoid is a strong word.”

“Uh hum,” Carson nodded, head cocked slightly and a gentle, teasing smirk on his lips, “Evading, then?”

(For the record—not that John expected anyone to be keeping a record—but, for the record, John was homeschooled until college and even then he got off-campus housing as a special dispensation for his “health problem” which only conveniently appeared in his medical records after his father paid a _friend_.

A _friend_ because John had been seen by a pediatrician all of once: the family physician had come over and distracted talking politics with Patrick, had given a vaccine and said he'd come back a few minutes later to do a proper exam. John had gone into anaphylaxis less than sixty seconds after the man had left the room.

Hence no more doctors and lots of pay offs to the right people to... amend information, although fat lot of good that was doing him now.)

John shrugged at him, pulling on a look that was a bit cocky and a bit chastised little boy.

“Ah, now, that won't work on me. Special course they give in medical school, How Not To Be Conned By Your Patients 101.”

“Did it precede How To Make Recalcitrant Scientists Obey 110?”

There was a huff of laugh, Carson smiling now, and he answered, “It's rather odd, but Rodney is much easier to wrangle than you are. He was one of the first in Sickbay for his six-month. You, on the other hand, are now overdue.”

Carson's amusement didn't stop the hairs from rising on John's neck, his anxiety creeping up; he tried to wiggle out by saying, “Oh, doc, why waste your time? I mean I was fine when we left the SGC, haven't been sick at all down here.”

“Nope, you haven't. Means that those annual and bi-annual exams have been useful, especially given your condition.”

“So skipping one should be no problem, then.”

His expression went firm at that, because wrong words—absolutely wrong words—and Carson said, “John, the day I let anyone here get away with not having a proper medical, especially when we're surrounded by alien technology that gives off bloody radiation on occasion, is the day that I should have my license revoked. Now, shall I have to go find some of those young Marines to have them corral you to Sickbay or will you come willingly?”

Shit.

Licking his lips as he tried to figure out a next step, John glanced at the door and his work and the security camera currently trained on his desk. He thought out about a hundred scenarios in the span of a few seconds, and tried to recall if he'd been nice enough to Major Lorne that the guy might fly him away from the Outpost in the middle of the night...

“John?”

He was trembling slightly, just perceptible enough that Carson could pick up on it, but otherwise, he wasn't panicking overtly. He even sounded nice and calm when he managed to get out, “Can we go to my quarters?”

* * *

John tried once more to get Carson to let him be on the walk from his office.

The doctor wouldn't be deterred.

* * *

“Look, there's... there's something different about me.”

Carson lifted an eyebrow. “Aye, there's something different about everybody.”

John resisted groaning. “No, Carson, there's something _really_ different about me. Something that's not in my medical record,” he said, then quickly added, “It's not omission that would be detrimental to my health. They didn't leave out an allergy or something.”

“Then what is it?”

“Ummm...”

“John, this is information I need.”

“Just... give me a second.” He swallowed. “Look, don't freak out.”

“I did my residency in Edinburgh and I doubt after all the violence I saw in the ER there, you could present me anything truly shocking.”

That made John laugh.

Hard.

“Are you all right?”

“Hang on to that statement, doc, because I think I'm going to surprise you,” John announced, and carefully flung his fleece and long-sleeved shirt into the corner. The tee and undershirt were next, revealing the harness underneath at which point Carson asked gently, “Is that for support?” as if John were merely revealing the oft-writ of skeletal anomaly of his medical record.

Loosing the clips that crossed his chest, John smirked, and replied, “Kind of,” before dropping the harness to the floor and stretching his wings.

Carson's eyes went wide, racing over the length of John and over the wings; for a moment he said nothing, then he quietly regained control over himself, coughed to clear his throat, and spoke.

“Edinburgh still wins.”


	3. The Storm

The four of them had stayed behind, prepping Atlantis for what John was calling The Pegasus Hail Mary; two of Evan's men had lingered in Ops to keep an eye on the Stargate, but later, when everything was said and done and Evan re-watched the security feed, he'd realize how they'd been distracted with homesickness.

That was later, however.

At the moment, he and John Sheppard were ducking through rooms, through corridors, on a desperate bid to reach the armory before the Genii did: Rodney or Elizabeth, they didn't know who (though they could guess), had made it possible for their counterparts to know what the Genii had come for and like hell were they going to allow it.

John was methodical despite the seething anger that Evan could just about glimpse in his eyes, something the latter was grateful for. He did not, after all, have time to teach a civilian how to be a soldier nor did he have time to deal with panic. No, he only had time to get the C-4 secured, get Sheppard armed, and hope like hell that nothing happened to the two up in Ops in the interim.

“Alcove,” Evan commanded in a low growl.

Without hesitation, John slipped himself into the nearest one as Evan strangled a man to the floor; John glanced to the left to ensure no one was there and slid into the armory at last, the door closing behind them both once secure inside.

Evan dropped his jacket into a crate and started pulling his uniform shirt off, telling John, “Clothing bulk is going to add weight and slow us down,” when the latter didn't do the same. Then he lifted an eyebrow and waited a moment before adding, “Look, now's not the time to be self-conscious.”

“That's not it.”

“What, you're cold?” he asked as he dragged his tach vest on.

Sheppard glanced around the room, then up at the camera placed centrally above them. The red light winked out—Evan really wished sometimes that his gene was nearly as strong as his teammate's, able to entice Atlantis to turn off power to what wasn't even her own technology—and said, “Can I trust you?”

“You've trusted me this far.”

“With my life, Lorne. Can I trust you with my life?”

It was an odd question and he stopped strapping the vest into place, cocked his head to the side. “I trust you with mine, so I hope you'd trust me with yours.”

The jacket finally fell from John's shoulders, followed by the ubiquitous blue shirt, revealing a white tee that clearly showed a tight harness beneath it. Evan resisted asking about it, because hell, how John managed with his back was John's business.

Then he pulled the shirt off and turned and feathers prodded from between the bands.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Nope, just me,” John chided back, undoing the harness to stretch his wings out, and he finally reached for a vest.

A chirp on an LSD nearest John regained Evan's attention and he reminded himself, _Mission first, questions later_ , before slipping his knife from its sheath and slicing into the back of the kevlar. “Not exactly mission spec, but it's the best I can do right now,” he said, using strips of velcro from another vest to strap the thing into place.

“Glad you're not freaking out.”

“Kind of trying to figure out how to use this to our advantage, honestly.”

John smirked, “I knew I liked you for a reason.”


	4. Sanctuary

The lab was deserted when John got home after Proculus.

So were Rodney's quarters.

(Perk of his gene: Atlantis obeyed him in every way and deferred to him in all things. Which had been incredibly useful when Kolya had tried to take over the city.

Asshole.)

The mess held a few people, mostly the evening shift scientists who all gave him soft, contrite looks; they'd all heard that he'd gone after Chaya despite Rodney's protests. And anyone who challenged Rodney, well, they were in for a world of hurt.

He wasn't in Ops either.

After that, there was just one more place to look, but John hesitated as he approached the door that would lead him onto the pier.

Did he really wanted to invite Rodney's wrath? Because John knew that he was in for it when he found his friend—John'd only hidden the true extent of his gene from everyone, including Rodney—and that he'd likely get the cold shoulder for a while.

John sighed.

He owed Rodney some measure of explanation.

Okay, not really.

Still...

The door slid open, a gust of warm sea arm buffeting him as he stepped out onto the pier; the water was more turbulent than usual, lapping up the sides of the pier until spray misting the edges of the walkway. It was slippery, but not impassible and he took his time as he approached the lone figure at the end.

Rodney didn't even acknowledge John, looking off into the distance.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

“Look, I'm sorry about,” John swallowed, stopped, and dropped to the plating. Once settled, he went on, “Did you tell Elizabeth?”

“No.” Rodney didn't look at him. “I didn't tell anyone.”

“And the readings?”

“Destroyed.”

 _Thank God_ , John thought; in the very least, any evidence—besides the two large ones strapped up on his back—was gone. The anxiety he'd been harboring eased a bit, his stomach beginning to unknot.

They were quiet a few moments, John grateful that Rodney hadn't exposed him to the rest of the Expedition, but the silence broke when Rodney asked, voice bitter, “What did I do?”

“Do?”

“To make you think you couldn't trust me. What did I do? Was it the Brocon Experiment? The whole thing with Zelenka?”

“No, none of that. And I do trust you.”

He snorted in reply, finally looking at John and revealing the exhausted, tight, brain-wracked expression that he only wore when he was truly feeling low. “Clearly you don't or you would have told me about your... exception.”

John held his gaze. “Rodney, it had nothing to do with you. All of five people in my life have known: my dad, Dave, Carson, Lorne, and a pediatrician, and I just... I don't tell people, all right?”

“You told Lorne?”

“It was during the hurricane, after the Genii invaded. He needed my help and the tac vest compresses in uncomfortable places. I didn't want you to get shot because I slowed Lorne down on the rescue.”

Rodney seemed to accept that, but he still had that expression, and John wanted so badly to get rid of it, because, seriously, trust had nothing to do with John telling or not telling someone about his wings.

“Look, it'd be like you telling someone about your childhood, all right?”

John had come into the information about Rodney's home life as a kid from Jeannie, not Rodney, who'd admitted that their parents' treatment of them had been poor at best and Rodney had been made to step up to raise her. He'd worked after-school at the grocer, using the time between customers to study and notate, and sacrificed most of his free time to making sure that Jeannie had clean clothes, notebooks and pens, and lunches packed.

(Rodney knew he knew, despite never acknowledging or discussing it.

It was, in John's mind, Rodney's wings. His were just invisible.)

That seemed to get through to Rodney, who told him, “I could have made things for you, fixed the tac vest.”

John clapped him on the shoulder and yanked Rodney in. “You still can. If you're not about to put the shun on me.”

At that Rodney rolled his eyes. “The shun? Please, I've tried to believe you don't exist, but you are remarkably hard to forget.”

“Good to know.”


	5. The Return

John had known the minute they stepped foot in Atlantis who they were and why they were there, and his skin had crawled.

“You are as we are.”

He stared at Helia, thinking, _Out, out, out_ ; she bared her teeth at him, as if in warning, and John told her, “We're not leaving.”

“You are welcome to stay, of course. The others cannot.”

“Why?”

“They are...”

He could hear the rhetoric in his mind, the way they viewed Elizabeth and Rodney and all of his friends.

“No.”

“Then we will remove them by force.”

And John felt his wings strain against the harness, fighting to show his anger in a way they'd understand.

Soon, everyone—the Ancients, the Expedition team—they'd see it too.

* * *

He'd wondered, since the conversation with his father, about his mother's wings: were they long and sleek like John's own or were they like he'd seen in some paintings, thick and stout but powerful looking where his weren't? Were they white? Were they gray? Did she know what it was to fly?

So many questions he'd never know the answer to.

* * *

They hadn't expected him to fight the expulsion.

(There was a moment of awe when he finally unlatched them: Helia recoiled and hissed something to her XO, drawing her weapon.

“You're not like them.”

“Well, I'm not like you.”)

Maybe that was why they eventually decided that Atlantis no longer belonged to them.

Helia told him, wings flicking in irritation, “She does not obey me any longer,” and glanced around the gateroom. “She used to listen so well.”

He said nothing.

“We could have helped you.”

John didn't look away, but he opened his hands and replied, “I have all the help I need.”

“Not with discovering who you truly are,” Helia's smile made John's stomach turn, “or about your birthright.”

“Woe for me.”

* * *

His skin had crawled from their presence, but afterwards, his mind had ached and burned with the sudden silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/720892.html?thread=95138044#t95138044) at [comment_fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/).


End file.
